The First Training
— Clang!
A clear, ringing crack of air being split apart.
Then a vicious, electric numbness climbing up through his grip.
Fuck, that hurts.
It really did. He had put his full weight into the swing, meaning to end his own life, and every bit of the rebound had slammed straight back into his wrist.
The silver fruit knife failed to pierce the slender nape of a ten-year-old boy.
More precisely, it never even reached the skin. Something invisible stopped it dead in midair.
What the hell? Is there an invisible steel wall or something?
In baffled frustration he put more force into his wrist and tried to drive the tip forward, but the blade only skidded and bounced away, refusing to sink so much as a hair’s breadth deeper.
Why won’t it go in?
A failure so absolute it was almost absurd. While he blinked in blank disbelief, strangled screams erupted around him.
“Y-Your Highness—! You mustn’t! Forgive us!”
“H-he’s trying to stab someone again…!”
Maids and attendants dropped to the floor, faces drained of color.
No, I was trying to stab my own neck. Why are you people begging for forgiveness?
The moment he raised the knife they had clearly assumed he was about to amuse himself by stabbing someone’s thigh or the back of a hand again. Only a beat later did they realize the tip was pointed at his own throat.
— Wait… he was actually going to do it?
That dawning horror froze them solid.
— The crown prince has finally gone mad from the fever.
The conviction flashed through every dilated pupil. Not one of them looked worried about him. They only feared who might die next.
Original Riftan, you absolute psychopath… how the hell did you live every day?
Even in that short moment he felt, bone-deep, just how rotten the previous owner of this body had been. A ten-year-old kid holds a knife to his own throat and the servants start begging for their lives instead of worrying.
He let the knife hang limp and stared into the mirror.
Perfect golden hair. Crimson eyes that smoldered like banked blood.
Wow. He really does look like a complete asshole.
Classic villain face—pure evil with zero hope of redemption. Annoyingly handsome, too.
And then, as if mocking his entire situation, a translucent system window floated up over his vision.
Karma
Sins shall not be judged. One cannot atone for oneself.
Reading the system’s words, he let out a short, bitter laugh.
No matter what atrocities he committed, he would never even be allowed the escape of taking his own life. A vicious penalty.
I was just going to suicide my way into an easy clear…
Hell, even roguelike hellfire difficulty was more merciful than this. He couldn’t even die by his own hand?
Rage surged—then he forced it down.
What choice do I have?
Expecting the most monstrous final boss in history to die that easily had been pure freeloader thinking anyway.
In fact…
It opened another possibility.
If I can’t kill myself…
Then he just needed someone else to do it for him.
Simple logic. Raise people who already had the stats to kill him, then let them cut his head off. Done.
The original story is already packed with people who want me dead by the truckload.
One blocked suicide ending wasn’t going to make him quit.
“……Everyone out.”
He tore his gaze from the mirror and tossed the order out. He had meant to say something closer to “Would you all leave, please?” but the words that left his mouth came out in the perfectly natural tone of a tyrant. Another correction from the trait, no doubt.
As the servants scrambled up and fled, he added one more cool sentence to their backs.
“Leave behind only the one who wishes me dead.”
The air in the vast bedchamber froze solid.
Faces went white, then green.
No, I’m seriously just looking for someone who’ll kill me.
To their eyes he must have looked like a mad tyrant hunting for a traitor.
— The crown prince has truly lost it today. Whoever gets caught is getting minced.
Don’t take it so hard, kids.
Eyes darted wildly among the servants; a silent vote took place over who would be the sacrifice. Being the living bomb himself, he found the whole thing a little heartbreaking. No—very heartbreaking.
The staring contest did not last long.
They shoved past one another and slipped out, leaving a single maid behind. Clearly the one who spoke least and had the least background to protect her.
Wow. Humans really have no loyalty.
The heavy door slammed shut. Only the two of them remained in the cavernous room.
He quietly studied the girl abandoned in the corner.
Pale blue hair. Cool grey-blue eyes that had settled into stillness.
Curious detail: even after the others had thrown her to the beast like live bait, she neither cried nor trembled and begged for her life. She kept her head bowed in fear, yet the hands clutching her skirt were clenched white-knuckle tight.
Hmm?
She looked familiar for some reason.
Resignation that had already accepted death, and beneath it a strange, unextinguished knot of something darker. The familiar features dredged up a memory from the game.
Silphy Calyps.
Mid-game extra. She had snuck into the crown prince’s chambers to assassinate him, been caught, and died under horrific torture. Her ending text surfaced crystal-clear in his mind.
She bore a hatred clear enough to kill the crown prince.
But the kitchen knife in her hand had been far too worn.
If only the weapon had been a little better…!
His lips curved into a pleased arc.
Look at that— a promising newbie right from the seedling stage.
An excellent prospect who would one day drive a blade into his heart. The joy of discovering his first executioner made his pulse race.
He picked the silver fruit knife up off the floor and walked toward her.
Without hesitation he pressed the hilt into her hand.
“Stab me.”
“……Pardon?”
Silphy’s grey-blue eyes flew wide with shock. She clearly thought the crown prince was testing her; the hand holding the knife shook violently.
Impatient, he clamped her hand in a crushing grip and guided the tip until it rested exactly over his left chest—where the heart beat.
“Here. Aim for the heart.”
“Y-Your Highness…?”
“That’s an order.”
Fear and rage collided violently in her eyes. The family members whose heads had rolled in the purge, the sick younger brother, the countless nights she had sworn to one day cut this cruel monster’s throat.
You want to kill me, don’t you? Just do it. Please.
He whispered against her ear like driving a wedge home.
“This is your chance to kill your enemy.”
So please don’t waste it—kill me.
To him it was a desperate plea. To Silphy’s ears it might have sounded like mockery that saw straight through the grudge she kept buried deep inside.
Her teeth ground together, the sound tearing the silence of the bedchamber.
The eyes that had been pure fear and suspicion finally flashed with sharp killing intent.
Oh, here it comes!
“Aaaah!”
With a raw, animal scream Silphy poured every ounce of strength into driving the knife toward his heart.
At last.
At last someone was trying to stab this godforsaken final boss out of existence!
His heart pounded as he watched the tip approach.
Then—
— Thud!
“Guh…!”
A dull impact and his vision lurched. No—her body lurched.
Huh?
His own body had moved first, beast-like reflexes overriding every command from his brain. A beat late he stared down at the foot he had extended.
Silphy, kicked square in the solar plexus, flew backward and slammed into the marble wall.
“Khh— cough! Hhk…”
She curled on the floor, retching bile, unable even to breathe properly.
What the fuck is wrong with this body moving on its own?
He started toward her. The instant he looked down at her thrashing in agony, a chillingly sweet, electric pleasure surged up his spine.
What is this?
Ah. Beautiful.
That face twisted in pain, that frail body curled as if it might shatter—why did it stoke the sadism so fiercely? He wanted to walk over right now, grind that delicate throat under his heel, and make her howl like a beast.
He wanted to make her cry.
He wanted to force that weak creature to her knees at his feet and watch the tears fall.
The pure sadistic instinct of the original Riftan, nesting inside this cursed flesh, had awakened.
You sick bastard.
Horror crawled down his back; he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery taste and sharp pain finally let the unnatural pleasure ebb like a tide.
He dragged in a rough breath, clinging to reason by his fingernails, and opened his mouth to speak to her.
— Are you hurt anywhere?
That was what he meant to say. But this cursed tongue twisted even the words that left his lips into cruelty.
“If your body breaks that easily, you aren’t qualified to aim for my throat.”
Silphy’s shoulders jerked. Yet the bloodshot eyes that looked up at him from the floor still burned. Despair, helplessness, humiliation—none of them had snuffed out the flame.
Only after confirming that fierce killing intent did he let out a short breath of relief.
Yeah. Her mental fortitude is absurdly solid.
That look was enough.
Ah.
Come to think of it, there was an item perfect for Silphy.
He walked to the cabinet and opened the box that had been sleeping quietly inside.
A jet-black dagger sheathed in black leather, cool dark mana rising from it like heat haze.
The original prince had treated it as mere decoration. Having played the game, he knew exactly how high-grade the weapon truly was.
He returned with it and tossed it carelessly at the feet of the still-gasping Silphy.
“Use this.”
Her silver-grey eyes flickered blankly between the dagger and his face.
“Next time, make certain you pierce my throat.”
Her bloodless hand trembled as it reached for the blade on the floor. The moment her fingers closed around the cold hilt, he saw it.
In those grey-blue eyes that had held only fear and murderous intent, a strange, scorching, twisted longing began to mix.
Heh. Look at those eyes.
That was it.
At last, the training of the first promising candidate who would kill him had begun.